The bar tables spilled down to the edge of the Grand Place, each of them filled with jostling, chanting, yellow-shirted young men.

The Swedes are not an abstemious race and on this balmy Brussels evening, strong drink was fuelling their patriotism.

Then a strange thing happened. In a corner of the elegant square, a small bridgehead of young French fans burst into La Marseillaise. It is, of all anthems, the most stirring; a full-throated call on the citizens to take arms and march on their oppressors.

The Swedes paused, staring respectfully into their beer glasses. The French sang on. There was a moment's silence, then the yellow shirts applauded with instinctive generosity while the smattering of Belgian locals nodded and smiled.

It took place on Friday evening and it was a lovely moment - decent people revealing mutual respect. Later that night, a few streets from the Grand Place, a waiter took my order and caught my accent.

'Where are the English?' he asked. I told him they were at Eindhoven. He shook his head, sadly. 'Poor Eindhoven,' he said.

Over the past few weeks, we have faithfully observed all the rituals which traditionally precede a major tournament.

We have worried over Shearer's knee and Scholes' back, Owen's hamstring and the battle-weary air of Tony Adams. More trivially, we have focused upon the thoroughly nonsensical dimensions; will Lineker's smile counter Lynam's wink, will Hansen opine more powerfully than Hoddle, will Big Ron prove more succinct than Unflappable Trev?

We have all played our parts, all sprinkled our handfuls of trivia on to the candy-floss mountain, all pretended that we were making meaningful contributions. And the harder we tried, the more fatuous we sounded.

Yesterday, we heard that three representatives of a red-top tabloid had been arrested in Brussels for carrying hunting knives and a crossbow. It appears that these diligent seekers after truth were attempting to demonstrate the ease with which offensive weapons are acquired in this corner of Europe.

I recalled a long ago World Cup in Argentina when another - and rather more resourceful - red-topper announced in his newspaper that the Red Brigade terrorist organisation had declared its intention to kidnap the entire Italy team.

He was assailed from all quarters but he was magnificently unrepentant. A day later, I found him stooped over his typewriter in Buenos Aires, eyes staring and fingers flying. He stole a glance over his shoulder. 'Tell me,' he muttered. 'How many As are there in Baader-Meinhof?'

The one thing that these gibberings have in common is a kind of cynicism, a feeling that if you can sell something along the way - be it a newspaper, a television station, a chocolate bar or a razor blade - then the championship will have served its purpose.

The idea that they might serve some higher, better purpose is too absurd to be entertained.

Yet that worthy idea has a certain staying power. Not in the salons of the Brussels Hilton, where the gentlemen of UEFA sit in quiet corners and swap promises over rounds of drinks: 'All right, you have the next World Cup, we'll have the next European Championship and make sure you remind me tomorrow . . . because my memory's not what it was.'

And not among many of the players who will take part in the competition these next few weeks and who view the experience as a crucial spell in the showcase: 'Three good games and I could be at Old Trafford, the Nou Camp or the San Siro before the month's out. Failing that, there's always Stamford Bridge.'

And not, crucially, among the cretinous ranks of England's hooligan followers, whose only aim is to live down to their moronic reputation.

You have to come to Europe, to a continent where sport is regarded as an elevating, enriching experience, to realise just how much they are despised.

Had they been present in the Grand Place on Friday evening, the Swedes would never have chanted unchallenged, the French would never have sung unopposed and the Belgians would never have sat there, smiling and reflecting that international sport could be a serene and civilising affair, involving honest passions and admirable people. Instead, there would have been screams and sirens, bottles and blood.

Their viciousness infects us all. The choreographers of last night's opening ceremony told us that the accent would be on the colour white, which represents innocence, purity and all those virtues which ought to be present when nations collide in harmless competition. And we sniggered, because we believed that international competition could never be innocent, harmless or pure.

Well, why not? Why should our values always reflect the demented excesses of drunken, slobbering, knuckle-dragging English fans? Why should we embrace the dregs of Europe and reject the cream? Why should we endure the paranoid squeals, the pathetic whimpers and the crass and counterfeit protestations of innocence which the weeks ahead will surely hold?

Because there is another way, and it was revealed by a bunch of agreeably intoxicated Swedes in the Grand Place of Brussels on Friday evening.

You sing your songs, chant your chants and make your patriotic points. Then you listen to the other lot with generous forbearance. And you get on with the game.

In a perfect world, Euro 2000 would represent the vindication of that mature and intelligent attitude. But the English have yet to announce themselves. And we are not holding our breath.